“Just twenty-three more days!” I remind him as we arrive at preschool on yet another chilly January morning. Numbers have become our lifeline, especially when each day feels so similar.
We start counting down to Valentine’s Day as enthusiastically as others do for Christmas, beginning right after New Year’s. If only he enjoyed chocolate, I think every year; I could create an extravagant Advent calendar filled with a giant box of sweets.
Three years ago, everything changed when he entered an inclusive preschool for children with special needs. This was his first time experiencing holidays outside of our family unit. Halloween didn’t pan out as I’d imagined; despite transforming his wheelchair into a Batmobile, he barely noticed. I managed one picture of him with his eyes half-closed before he yanked off the cape and moved on. Thanksgiving and Christmas passed similarly, with me drawn to the festivities while he remained reserved, like a pint-sized monarch on his wheeled throne. None of it stirred him the way I had hoped.
I dreaded birthday invitations that popped up in his cubby like glittery landmines. “No, sorry, Max won’t be able to join Charlie’s birthday party at the trampoline park,” I’d text. “Will not be able…” It was an honest RSVP. We tried a practice run at the trampoline park, just the two of us. My arms strained under his weight as we navigated the bouncy landscape, only to be overwhelmed by younger kids bouncing us around. He cried out, and I had to drag him out like a lifeguard rescuing a flailing swimmer. Similar experiences at the pool and play gym yielded the same result: too much or too little stimulation kept him withdrawn.
“Remind me again when the ‘inclusive’ part of this inclusive preschool kicks in for us?” I would say, emphasizing the air quotes while my husband winced at my scraped knees from the trampoline debacle.
“The point is he gets the opportunity,” he would counter, embodying his steadfast motto of “steady onward.”
By the time February rolled around that first year, I reluctantly browsed the discount bin for Valentine’s Day cards at the store, my enthusiasm dulled. I just wanted the 14th to come and go quickly.
Without warning, Max lunged for a dusty bag of conversation hearts, nearly tipping his wheelchair. I steadied him, ignoring the string of drool that had landed on the shoulder of a stranger nearby. He peered at the bag like it was a rare artifact, his nose nearly touching it.
We bought those conversation hearts, and I took them to school. When I buckled him into his car seat that afternoon, he exclaimed, “Ma-ma” (stretching it out like a game show host) “good.”
He held up a paper bag overflowing with candy, cards, and stickers and revealed a piece of pink construction paper shaped like a heart. Some kind soul had arranged his conversation hearts in a wobbly line that read: “Love You,” “Dear One,” and “Tweet Me.”
I chuckled and gently tried to take it from him to prevent him from munching on the glue, but Max gave me a look that clearly said, “Not a chance.” So, I let it be.
Later, I spread out the leftover hearts on the table, watching him sift through them like a child at the beach. He began forming coherent messages: “UR,” “Real Luv,” “Soul Mate,” and “Marry Me,” with a “Please” pointing from him to his dad. We stood in silence, his words displacing ours.
Was this some sort of sorcery? A bag of candy acting as a portal to his inner thoughts? I’d wished for so long that he’d find his voice, yet this felt different.
I recorded a video, attempting not to sound overly enthusiastic in the background. I sent it to his speech therapist and held my breath until she confirmed my fears. He had done the same in class, crafting that construction paper heart and spelling out messages for his peers like a little wizard. I hung up the phone in tears. Of course, I did. I had just discovered that my son had a world within him waiting to be expressed.
Somehow, those candy hearts unlocked a form of communication for him that flashcards and his speech device never could. With those hearts, he crafted colorful messages the world could finally understand.
Now, he’s more adept with his communication device, interacting with others as we always dreamed he would. But every Valentine’s Day, I buy a bag of conversation hearts, we countdown together, and he makes cards with sentences he creates himself. It’s a celebration of the day he truly found his voice.
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In summary, through a simple bag of conversation hearts, my son discovered a means to express himself that had previously eluded him. Each Valentine’s Day, we celebrate not just the holiday but the journey of his newfound voice.
Keyphrase: My son found his voice
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